Rose, Rose
by American Gelato
Summary: When England finds a sobbing France in his house, tormented by a gruesome nightmare, he decides to return a favor from his childhood. Summaries are hard... basically some very fluffy FrUK :3 Rated for England's "gentlemanly" language.


**[EDIT] A/N: You know that feeling you get when you read your old stories after you've been writing for a while and you realize that there are so many things that look like crap that you could've written ****_so_**** much better? Yeah, well, this story took the cake in that category. Just reading the original author's note made me feel like an utter noob, sooooo… I edited the story a bit. Most of it was adding details and removing unnecessary drabble, as well as fixing grammar and spelling mistakes, which were in part caused by Fanfiction being weird. But don't worry! The story is the same, only better! Yay! :D**

**A couple of notes: (1) If you don't know what Slender is, then I have lost all faith in my generation, in which some of the stupidest people I have ever seen seem to thrive. (2) The version of "Rose, Rose" that I use in this story is the version I was taught in Girl Scout camp, and may be different from what ****_you_**** may know, since there are many different versions of it on the internet. (3) Let me know if you like the story better now so that I know whether or not I should clean up a few of my other ones. Enjoy ;D**

_ 'This room is too bloody stuffy.'_

England sat in front of his white corner desk, staring absentmindedly at yet another uninteresting email on the lit up desktop screen in front of him. The clutter that normally adorned the long, deep desk was now haphazardly shoved against the wall it was set up against, giving way to even more cluttered documents that, if anyone had bothered to look, weren't there twelve hours earlier. The black office chair he sat in was now completely lowered to reduce the strain on his already stiff shoulders and neck from leaning forward too much, making him look like a child that had grown too tall for the toddler swings at a playground. Although the ceiling fan was whirring at full speed and had been for the past eight hours, the room was still uncomfortably hot and sticky feeling.

England wore a hunter green t-shirt and a pair of red and black plaid pajama pants, both of which were sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He wore a pair of black, thick rimmed glasses and his hair was mused up. Hell, he even put one of his old punk piercings back in his cartilage (he could never give it up, since it was his favorite one), making him look like a college student that had procrastinated on an essay until the night before it was due. He was, as he often heard teenagers say these days, "bumming it".

Now, being the sensible and intelligent "gentleman" that he clearly was, one would think that by know the Brit would've opened the bedroom door or a window to allow cool, refreshing air to sweep through and bring comfort to his sweaty body. But England has his reasons for doing neither.

First, it was 10:15 at night, and the only thing that he would see outside the window- should he choose to open it- would be complete and utter darkness. He would never tell anyone, but he had an extreme phobia of Slender Man that he acquired from playing Slender only a few weeks ago. America had come running to him during lunch break at the most recent World Meeting, ranting about how frightening the game was, insisting that the Brit play it. Now, England would normally refuse and scold America, telling the young man that he should focus more on his country's economic status rather than play video games that he knew would give him night terrors. However, to spare his pride and to quiet the obnoxious fool, England relented and played the game. He later cursed the American's high quality headphones as the music grew more suspenseful after the sixth page was obtained. Just as he neared the landmark that held the seventh page, static began to fill his vision, and he turned his character around to see Slender Man standing only five feet away from him. An unmanly shriek and one pair of soiled slacks later, America found himself with a severely dented laptop and his left ear ringing and possibly half deaf.

_Never. Again._

A chill ran down England's spine as he cast a nervous glance to the closed shutters to his left.

Second, he kept his door closed to keep unwanted visitors- with or without faces- out of his room. He had learned the hard way that cool air is not worth a naked France or a drunken Prussia waltzing into your room uninvited. This had happened may times, with each occurrence leaving England to wonder how the bloody hell they had gotten into his house, unbeknownst to him at that, in the first place. But a nude, avid "professional flirt" shamelessly stealing the virginity of many people's eyes or a washed-up micro nation sloshing beer onto his rug and hardwood floors wasn't something he thought he really needed to worry about tonight, for neither one was in the vicinity.

Oh, how wrong he was.

The Brit continued to stare lazily at the computer screen through half lidded eyes, wondering for the nth time since late July why he agreed to host the Olympics this year if all that followed was virtual mountains of post-event paperwork. As he half-heartedly typed his letter of recommendation for Russia to host the 2014 event, he failed to hear the sloppy, hurried footsteps that echoed through the hallway.

The bedroom door suddenly shook as the sound of a body slumping against it nearly scared England shitless for the second time in under a month.

"SHIT MOTHER FUCK!" he screamed as he jumped, quite ungracefully, out of his chair and backpedaled as far away from the door as possible. His heart was racing with utter terror and he did his best to calm himself before he began hyperventilating.

_'Ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod what the fuck was that ohmygod I'm going to DIE ohmygod …'_ was the most coherent thought that ran through England's mind. He had so much more to live for! He _couldn't_ just _die_! Literally. In retrospect, he would mentally face palm for thinking such a simpleminded thought.

His heart beat pounding clearly in his ears, the trembling Brit rummaged in his copious amounts of clutter for a flashlight and clung to it for dear life, the cold metal already bringing a sort of security upon him. He slowly approached the door, deathly afraid of whoever was on the other side. As his clammy hand reached out for the door knob, he barely heard the shuddering breaths and quiet sobbing coming from the other side of the wood.

_Wait, sobbing?_ This baffled England, even in his frightened state. _Faceless men don't sob. Can they even breathe, anyways?_

With newfound curiosity, England gripped the door knob, turning it slowly, and tugged, only allowing a small sliver of the hallway beyond to become visible. As he did this, the sobbing became clearer. He squinted his eyes while trying to make out any distinguishable shape amongst the blobbish shadows, cursing the darkness for concealing it. Suddenly remembering that he was holding a light source, he swung open the door and flicked on the flashlight, illuminating a sight he never thought he would see.

Broken down and sobbing, an all too familiar Frenchman was hugging his knees to his body and trembling in infrequent intervals. His normally radiant, almost godly glow was gone, not even a trace of it remaining. His normally lustrous blond hair- which England _NEVER_ in his life imagined was incredibly soft- now seemed dull and limp, hanging in slick strands that framed his face.

_His face_.

Normally so full of flirtatious beauty and mischief, it was now twisted into utter despair, caused by whatever anguish he was going through at the moment. Those crystal blue eyes that were always enticing to look at were now squeezed shut, whether to stop the flow of tears or to try to shut himself away from the pain, England didn't know. He did know, however, that France wasn't pulling his leg, that this was legitimate sadness.

That scared him more than just a stupid video game.

"Fra-Bloody hell, Frog, why are you here? What happened to you?" England did his best to sound irritated, but seeing France in so much anguish broke his heart, although he didn't want to believe it.

"A-Ah-_Angleterre_… Ah- I-," France began, only to cry even harder and louder that before.

"You what? For God's sake, man, speak the Queen's language-!" England halted, immediately regretting his words. France began to weep even _harder, _if that was even possible. He didn't want to tear the Frenchman apart more that he already was, so, regardless of what it would do to his pride later, England relented. "Well, come in, tell me what happened."

England knelt down and gripped France's arm firmly. With a small huff, he pulled France to his feet, only to have the latter stumble forward and nearly fall. He would have if not for the strong arm that wrapped around his shoulders to hold him up. England pushed the door all the way open with his foot and lead the lamenting man into his bedroom. He guided the Frenchman to the queen-sized bed at the far end of the room, keeping an eye on him to make sure he wouldn't fall again.

"Here, sit down on the bed," England muttered, struggling under France's weight. France really didn't need an invitation, for he immediately flung himself onto the plush pillows and covers, crying his heart and soul, it seemed, into the bed.

England sat down onto the edge of the bed next to France, unsure of what to do. He had never seen any of the other nations break down like his, let alone one of his enemies. Desperate for any way to convey any sort of comfort, he thought back to the times when he was just a child. France was only a teenager of thirteen or fourteen, and always took it upon himself to be the great Big Brother France he was towards the stubborn Brit, teasing England about his crude mannerisms. However, when Scotland and Ireland's antics became too much, France would halt all teasing and fighting to comfort the British toddler. He would drop everything he was holding and sit down, take England in his arms, and begin rocking back and forth, singing a soft, soothing tune that only the two of them ever heard, stopping occasionally to whisper soothing French words in his ear. Those were the only times that England really didn't mind hearing that "frog language", the way it slipped from France's lips like silk, working magic that only those skillful lips could. Those words would be repeated to him until he fell into a sweet, surreal sleep, one that only France could bring.

Truth be told, England would always remember those times when he became upset with something, whether it be frustration caused by a meeting or just a lack of confidence in his cooking skills. It would calm him down to listen to that song play over and over in his head. Normally, he would scorn himself for thinking of France in ways that didn't involve scheming morbid "accidents" that could "possibly" incapacitate the man. But when the going got tough, thinking of those calming moments were what got him back to his normal self.

England decided that now was the perfect time to return the favor. He slid himself fully onto the bed, scooting closer to the weeping Frenchman in the very middle. He gingerly turned a shaking Frances over and pulled him into his lap. The reaction was immediate. France curled closer to England, gripping his shirt as if he was afraid the newfound comfort would vanish if he let go. He began to sob freely onto the Brit's chest, all of the despair running down his face in the form of thick rivers that were quickly soaked up by the shirt. England rubbed warm circles on France's back, and began to slowly rock his body back and forth. As he did this, he began to sing in a soft, light voice that he didn't think he was capable of, but nevertheless glad it happened.

_"Rose, rose, rose, rose_

_Will I ever see thee wed?_

_I will marry at thy will, sire_

_At thy will._

_Ding, dong, ding, dong_

_Wedding bells on a September morn',_

_Carve thy name on a moss covered stone_

_On a moss covered stone..."_

He continued to sing this over and over, his voice growing softer as France's trembling became calmer and his sobs became less and less frequent. After the fifteenth round of the song, France was breathing softly, occasionally snuffling from his congested sinuses. England reached over to the night stand and grabbed the box of tissues sitting there, handing them to France. This gesture seemed to wake France from his reverie, for he jumped to an upright sitting position, sheepishly taking the tissues. He blew his nose a couple of times, all the while avoiding eye contact. When England thought he was finished, he asked the question that had been nagging him from the time he found France wallowing in sadness in his hallway.

"What happened?"

That one question on its own seemed to make France's eyes water. England began to panic, but, thankfully, France didn't cry. He opened his mouth, only to close it again, as if unsure whether or not England would really care.

"You can tell me," he said, genuine concern clouding his features.

France looked very ashamed, and England could almost hear the words that were about to be spoken in that silky French accent. _It's a stupid reason. You'll just laugh at me. It will just waste your time._ Before those words could come out of France's mouth, England took France's right hand in his own left, shocking the Parisian. He curled is fingers in-between the spaces of France's own and began to rub small circles on the skin just below France's thumb with his own, as if that one simple gesture held the universal meaning of every tender and reassuring thought that had ever been expressed and ever will be. France seemed to get the message, for he drew in a shaky breath and exhaled, staring at the small space of the plush comforter in-between him and England.

"I-I had a n-nightmare. _Très terrible…_" he trailed off in his native tongue. Normally, England would snap back with a cynical remark for crying over something so trivial, but this was different. If France was forming a bloody _ocean_ over this, then it most have been very awful indeed.

"Please tell me," he urged again, squeezing the shaking hand lightly. "I can't help you unless you tell me."

"Ev-eryone was dying. I do-don't even know how it started, but they were d-dying in the most grues-ome way possible. They were left to die on the b-battle field," France choked out, a few more sobs escaping his throat before he calmed himself. It made sense that he would think that about death on a battle field. Both of them had had their fair share of wars. Both had seen the horrendous effects that war has on not only themselves, but to ordinary people as well. England himself still had flashbacks of The Blitz every now and then, and they always sent shivers down his spine. It would happen during the World Meetings, when either America or Russia would bring up a particularly gory subject, or during a violent thunderstorm.

England pulled himself back to reality to find France glancing at him expectantly. England hummed softly, urging him to continue.

"Russia was sobbing with his dying breaths, his metal pipe lodged in his heart…" France murmured, his voice now steady and flooded with sorrow. "Spain and Romano were dead, clutching each other's hands… And Canada… _petit Mattieu_… his face was so peaceful, and America was crying silently has he rocked him back and forth with his waning strength…" Francis continued to recall the events of the nightmare. Each detail made England's heart wrench, and soon enough there were small trails of tears leaking from his own eyes as France spoke of Japan coughing up what little blood he hadn't already lost and China's face contorted into a scream of death that was never heard. But what really got England was what France said next:

"_Angleterre_, you were still alive, but barely. You called to me in a voice so weak that at first I thought I was hallucinating. When I knelt down beside you, you muttered something. It was so soft I couldn't even read your lips. I saw a ghost of a smile, a genuine, happy smile cross your face and remain there as you closed your eyes and your body sat still for the rest of eternity. _Mon cher_, I wept and wept and wept. I let out a powerful scream to the sky, cursing every deity ever recorded for letting it happen. It was that very scream that shot me back to reality. I ran here as fast as I could to make sure you were still among the living."

Now it was England's turn to cry. His shoulders wracked with breathy sobs, and he furiously wiped at his eyes to get rid of the stinging sensation that signaled he was about to start bawling. He restrained himself from doing so, however.

_'I can't break down in front of France. He's the one that needs support. He needs to know it will be okay. Not me. I already know that.'_

"France."

Said man looked up into England's bottle green eyes for the first time that night. Those eyes held all the comfort that could never be spoken, simply because there were no words that could. England let out a sorrowful laugh.

"What the bloody hell makes you think that I would die and leave you here alone?"

France's eyes widened slightly. If he were fully awake, he would have even been taken aback at England's deep words. But drowsiness had fallen upon him from the moment England began singing to him.

Now that he thought about it...

_That was our song… I would sing it to him all the time when he was upset…_ France was touched to the point of tears. But these tears he welcomed with arms opened wide, for he felt the happiest he had in a long time.

"_Angleterre… mon coeur… merc_-no, thank you." England smiled, genuinely smiled, at the simple effort France put into using English. It was an easy thing to do, really. Anyone else would have thought it to be just a different choice of words, but those words showed that France cared about him enough to use his language. England hugged France tightly, burying his face in his right shoulder. France did the same, and they remained like that for the longest time. England could smell baguettes, fermented wine, and… oil paints? Of course, he was the country of love, art, and the finer things of life, after all.

"If you want… you can stay here tonight. I mean, it's pretty late out, I don't know how you were able to get here in the- dark."

_'Shit. I hope he didn't catch that.'_

Too bad, he did. England could feel France's body shake with laughter, and it calmed the Brit to see that he was happy again.

"Of course, I didn't even think of brining a flashlight with me as I ran over here. I hope _no one followed me here… ohonhonhon_~." France pulled away just enough to send a lovely rape face England's way, earning him a lovely bitch slap in return.

"Fuck you."

"Well, if you insist~!" _Smack._

"_Mon cher, _I'm going to have hand marks all over me if you keep it up. Spain and Prussia will think that I'm being abused." France said, wincing at the brilliant scarlet splotches appearing on his arm and face.

"They'll probably congratulate you on finally finding someone who can keep you and your perverse thoughts in line…" England trailed off with a long yawn, and he realized that it was already 11:43, over an hour since France arrived.

"You know, _Angleterre_, I might take you up on that offer. It's quite late, and it looks to me that you've been up quite a while," France said, glancing at the forgotten documents on England's computer screen. England could only nod in agreement, and began to pull the comforter out and over his tired body. France rose up from the bed to shut down the computer, and proceeded to turn off the light switch. England was already curling up under the covers like an armadillo. France crawled in beside him, and England immediately gravitated towards the newfound warmth. France sleepily wrapped his arms around England, hugging him close. England began to feel France's chest vibrate against his cheek, and realized that France was humming their song.

_Their song._

He quite liked the sound of that.

**[EDIT] A/N: Ahhh, that's soooo much better! I feel as though I've done something for the greater good of humanity, like cleaning up the litter on a highway, or saving a bag of abandoned kittens :3.**

**Reviews are lovely~**


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